Free Spanish Disco by Erica Orloff Page A

pound nails up his nose. Anyway, call me if you can. Thanks. Martin Morris. Thanks.”
    The cool modulation of the voice mail seductress told me if I pressed nine I could save my message. If I pressedseven, I would delete it for all eternity. The son of the Human Hammer? That would be a seven.
    “Cassie? Jane Marchand here. Look…I absolutely refuse to do another book signing for you-know-which megastore. I got there, and they didn’t have a table set up. Some sweating, greasy nerd of a manager with an actual pocket protector set up a signing table finally, and then he didn’t have enough books. What a schmuck. I am telling you—forget it. No more. Who could put up with this?”
    Lucky number seven.
    “Cassandra Hayes? Donald Seale from Conversations magazine. I think you’ll want to return this phone call. It concerns Roland Riggs. I’m staying at the Sundial Resort on Sanibel. We’re neighbors you might say. Please call me. It’s urgent.”
    Seven. I felt stalked. How did he know where I was?
    “This is Harry, Cassie. I need to speak with you about chapter six. What’s with this comment here you wrote about Lucy not being believable? She’s horny for the hero. I think it’s perfectly legit. And I can’t even read your writing on the last page.”
    Harry…the man writes novels about a swaggering, drinking detective and the women who fuck him. All of the women have breasts the size of the Hindenburg and “gams” with more curves than the Pacific Coast highway. I must have written my comments when I had finally decided he could take his “erect nipples” and “tight little asses” and shove them up his own tight little ass. The series had started as a very fresh approach to the hard-bitten private eye and had deteriorated to shit.
    Press nine. Save it until I could respond with an appropriately specific voice mail of my own.
    “Cassie…this is your mother. I went to see your father, and he looks unwell. I am not sure where you are, but I would appreciate a status report. You can reach me at the Palm Springs number. I know you won’t call me. You act as if that man is God, Cassie. Well, I’m your mother, and I am entitled to know what is happening with him. You think this is about the estate but—”
    Speed up her message. Press seven so hard my index finger turns white.
    “Cassie…Michael here. I just wanted to hear your voice, even if it is your damned machine.”
    My heartbeat escalated like the disco beat constantly pulsing throughout the house on Roland’s stereo.
    “I wish you’d call me. I’m not sure who this famous author fellow is, but he can’t possibly need you more than I do. I can’t finish the book without you. I won’t, actually. Call me. I won’t write another word until you do. And I’ll hold my breath also.”
    Silence, but still no beep signaling the end of his message.
    “See…I really am holding my breath. I don’t think you want me to pass out. I’m stark naked, and the tabloids would love it now, wouldn’t they? Finding me dead, naked…they would think I’d been wanking off when in fact I had been having a tantrum over my beautiful editor. I’m holding my breath…. You better call me.”

    Beep. Message over. I pressed nine. A keeper.
    Next message: “Cassie…” Michael again. “I’ve decided holding my breath is just too damned difficult. I’m going on a hunger strike instead. I’m giving up my bloody bangers and everything. I’ll just drink martinis. Just alcohol. No food.”
    Press nine.
    “Cassie…Michael—”
    What was it about English accents? His voice sent a shudder through my body. I sat down on my bed and pulled the blanket around me.
    “I’ve decided the hunger strike should not include martini olives. I am going to eat jars of them to sustain myself. And the martinis. Please call.”
    Press nine. I was smiling and shivering at the same time. But it was time to call Lou. I explained I hadn’t even seen the elusive manuscript, but I